Mourning Has Broken
by Amazonia
Summary: It's Christmas time and Draco is wishing for a brighter morning. Will he get what he asks for, or has he done something that deserves nothing more than a lump of coal and unexplained questions?


**Title: Mourning Has Broken**

Title: Mourning Has Broken (Secret Santa Story 2007)  
Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape, OC  
Genres: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Romance  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: Adult Language, Angst, Hurt/Comfort  
Summary: It's Christmas time and Draco is wishing for a brighter morning. Will he get what he asks for, or has he done something that deserves nothing more than a lump of coal?

_Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. _

_Disclaimer 2: Plot that's not taken from the copywrited sources above and OC "character" are mine_

_Beta: Thank you, Romany, for being a wonderful Beta._

_Dedication: Yes, this was written a LONG time ago [2007], but it was written for Shadowsamurai as part of a Secret Santa thing over at Hex. HOWEVER, this is an updated version. Sorry, can't help it. The original is on Hex, if you'd like to compare. _

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**Mourning Has Broken**

Your feet make dry, rasping sounds against the wood flooring. The flames in your fireplace reach your right side, warming it. Then you give your back to them as you walk into the kitchen. It's eight in the morning, you realize with shock as you put a saucepan on to heat. You haven't woken that early since – well, him. But it's Christmas Eve and you don't want to talk about that time, or him, even as both ease their way into the darkened parts of your memory, even as a headache starts forming and you rub your temples to feel the pulsing veins and arteries protesting. After you put the eggnog in, you lean back into the counter's cool edge and look around your solitary flat.

It's nice, but you remember a time when it was nicer. When, at this time last year, you and he had hung mistletoe all over everything. When there had been a giant Christmas tree, covered in real fairy lights, by the window overlooking the street you both liked to gaze upon. The glass flickeringly reflecting the lights at night when the window became a foggy mirror that took away loved imperfections, lessened the laughing crow's feet that had landed in your eyes too early. You touch the space under your lower eyelid, feel the tiredness from the heat radiating into your cold fingertips, reflected there in your sunken cheeks, and sigh. You haven't looked through that window in so long, you realize, jerking, as you stare at the bland beige curtains that hide the outside world away; they used to be silk, a tapestry that caught the firelight and shadows and came to life while you were watching, but he had picked it out, and so you had packed it away. You wonder wryly, though, and only for a second, if you are hiding yourself from the outside. You sneer into the vast emptiness of your flat, knowing that no one will wipe that savage grin from your face.

"You're doing it again," you hear your inner thoughts singsong in amusement. "You're being querulous." Shuddering, you wonder why your brain has to sound like a cheerful Severus; not that you even know what that would sound like. You turn away when you hear the eggnog boiling and fling your unkempt blond hair from your eyes. You really should cut it. It has been two months now since Harry left without reason, a cause, even a callous note telling you he didn't love you anymore.

You pour the eggnog into a mug that's a quarter filled with alcohol and grab the bottle as you leave the kitchen, dragging it across the marble countertop until there's no marble countertop left to drag it on. You remember when you didn't have a fireplace. That Severus had gotten you one after Harry had left – because Harry had left. You want your fake Muggle one back – you want to hear the disconcerting mechanical crackle as it turned on and heated up – if it means Harry will come with it. The mantel seems naked and you look away from it at the couch. Last year you and Harry had each hung two stockings. Now it just looks indecent, sneering at you. Blaming you.

Gulping half your eggnog in one go wasn't a good idea. You shudder as the alcohol and heat burn your throat. Your eyes tear up as you stare at the fireplace, and you quickly wipe the moisture away, convincing yourself it was because of the burn on your tongue, down your throat – not the one in your heart, still burning. Was it when he began covering all the mirrors and you laughed? That must've been when he started shuffling away from you. You've thought this very thing millions of times before. Rewinding and replaying, those were the words that Harry had used as he pointed out the buttons on the movie player. This was all so frustrating, you reflect, abandoning the hot drink for the lukewarm bottle and lifting it high above your head, feeling your Adam's apple move like a panicked heartbeat. You sigh and stare at the blurring fire. Was it about that one argument when he'd slept on the couch, head resting where your limp hand is now?

"Draco?" your internal voice queries, sounding gravelly like someone who hardly talked, sounding like Severus, sounding like you, but you ignore it and look at the curtains, pet the velvet upholstery.

"Draco Malfoy!" And then it's right there, your inner voice, and you aren't at all surprised it looks like Severus. You realize your eyes are wide, like when you're scared. You are going crazy. It must've happened slowly, sneaked up on you.

"What in damnation? You're drinking already? Are you that desperately in need of one of my lectures, again?" Severus is standing over you, folding his arms across his chest. You can't make yourself look at him. You'd rather look through the mouth of your bottle, at the amber liquid playing with the flickering fire like autumn trees dappled with sunlight. That's when he left, during the fall. You hear Severus sigh. Choking the throat of the bottle, you prepare yourself.

"Your jejune attempts at trying to cut yourself off from the world aren't working. I want you in my cottage, tonight, or there will be no presents from me. Ever. And remove that feral animal off of your chin." You feel the air flickering as he walks toward the flames, see them turning green and feel the regained stillness of the flat. It would be very bad if you disobeyed that order.

Hours that you'll never be able to remember later, ones filled with half memories and shadowy speculations, you use both hands to carefully put the empty bottle on the table next to the Zenith remote control and waveringly go to the curtains. It's time you open them, maybe see some cheering Christmas lights. You rub your face, feel the meager beard there, moistened a little with whiskey, close your eyes, and pull at the cheap cloth. You have to be at the cottage in a couple of hours, so you should probably get cleaned up soon.

The window has little droplets of perspiration and, as you sit on the window seat, you wipe the water away with your hands, gently, like you did when Harry's headaches would pain him so much that he couldn't help but cry from frustration, and you remember falling in love with him. The street appears so different than the last time you'd looked. You'd love to hear the carolers singing under your window.

You open it a little and feel the sharp, cold air nip invigoratingly at your skin. You open it all the way and stick your head out to see every lighted home. Last year, you and Harry put so many lights up that every other house looked dark. But this year your house is the dark one, and it upsets you suddenly. Feeling the coarse brick on the outside of the ledge, you stare down at the reflecting multi-colored snow. There's hardly anyone walking around in the gathering darkness. Your breath catches. Someone with disheveled black hair is walking closer with unsteady steps. But, no, it must be some homeless drunk. You stare anyway and remember Harry stumbling through the flat, aiming for the couch and missing, falling into you. Laughing.

"I've got you," you'd told him.

"Yes."

"Always," you'd added.

"Yes. Yes." And he'd kissed you.

Your neck starts to hurt, twisted to the left so you track the destitute's wavering movements. When, finally, he reaches your window and looks up, you're sure it's him. About to call down, you stop dead, mouth half-way open, as something materializes between you – something bloody and blond. Harry focuses on it and backs away, shaking his head jerkily, lips parted in the beginning of a scream as it begins descending.

Knowing that this might be your only chance, you snatch Harry's coat, put on your boots, and don't even care if you lock the door. Your head is cleared with direction for the first time in weeks. You don't want to think about what that thing is. As you walk closer to him you hear warnings and comments being hurled at your back from people who'd emerged when the screaming started.

"Son, don't go any closer."

"So young, the poor lad."

"So thin."

"He's drunk. You'll get hurt," someone says and tries to hold you back. You realize with shock that the smell of spirits is strong. But then, maybe it's you. You reach Harry and turn around, looking at the gathered crowd.

"It's all right," you shout, "I'm a psychiatric doctor." You work the words slowly around your tongue. They nod in relief, but some still don't turn away.

"Harry. Look at me," you say, holding his thickly bearded chin towards you. But he keeps looking at that thing that looks like a bloody, almost dead, you, and convulses.

You take a deep breath and catch sight of the voyeurs. "He was my patient, from before." That seems to satisfy the rest of the now gaping crowd. It's the truth, though, you wonderingly remember all those months at Hogwarts when Severus insisted that he come see you for his ghastly headaches. Then you're aware of Harry speaking, calling your name and looking at you.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to find out how and kill you," he repeats croakily and you scrunch your eyebrows, worried.

"No, Harry, you aren't. Come on; tell me what's going on. Why did you leave?" Your Healer voice sounds too calm, you realize, compared to the anger and heartbreak you're actually feeling. Inside, it feels like you're about to implode, and only your will is holding back your body's self-destruction. Your jaw is gritted tight, but you open it to take a breath of life. You really want to smash things, to destroy. To beat Harry to a pulp and shake him into responsiveness. A fantasy of you stands in the middle of an empty, frozen field and screams themselves hoarse, body arching towards a sky without a sun. But in the real world, he looks at you with wide, Christmas-colored eyes and repeats his threat. You don't want to do this, but what other choice do you have. You hold his too-hot head in both hands and look into his eyes. He was never good at Occlumency, but, like this, it would be too easy; you have to be careful not to hurt him.

Then you see. Watch Harry struggling to get rid of that Boggart that looked like a Dementor you. Dead in various ways. As it exploded into black sparkles that disappeared once they touched the floor. Shudder when it came to Harry, called itself The Ghost of Christmas Past. Gasp as Harry realized that it was the Boggart he'd killed last Christmas. Watch it haunting him in the mirrors, outside them. Gape as it showed him himself killing you, over and over, more brutally each time. Witness how Harry couldn't take it anymore and left while you were sleeping. Looked at you, smiled, whispered his love and left. Observe as he ate less and less, walked away more. Drank to push it away in his stupors. You watch the Boggart cackling gleefully. See Harry at death's door. Walking towards you one last time, hoping to see your face in the window. _One last time_, that's all he'd whispered.

You leave Harry's head, gasping, and realize that he's moaning loudly and gripping your fingers, trying to pull them off of his head. Realize with a jolt that that thing is the ghost of a Boggart. You've never seen one because they're so rare. They're more specific to a person, to their loved ones; they can make multiple images, taunting the viewer with reality. The pages of the book flutter in your memory. Your mouth is opened wide. Holding a sob, you lift Harry up, feeling only shivering bones. That damned Boggart growls and shows you yourself dropping Harry down the stairs. It had been haunting both of you? You remember the nightmares you forgot when Harry had left. Half-dark dreams of horrors that were your own designs. Things you swore you would never do, and you almost drop Harry in your shaking arms. He'd taken it with him, away from you. The chivalrous imbecile.

When you get to your flat's door, Severus frantically flings it open and helps by moving the furniture out of your way. He must've been looking out the opened window. He's talking, but you can't hear him. You can't hear anything but the sound of thunder and moaning in your ears. Once you lay Harry down, you point at the Boggart, which was now getting confused with the three of you. Severus gapes at the ghost for a second, even as it turns and stares at him. Then he conjures some amber element like glass that turns red when he adds Harry's blood to it. The glass then stretches and hovers and squeezes over the Boggart, as it alters and shivers into different grotesque manifestations of their fears, until it's the size of your abandoned bottle, crystallized. Entombed and falling to the wood floor with a heavy, unbreakable thud, the Boggart rages until it's reduced to something indiscernible and mute in the prism of the crystal.

Then, with the bitter draft coming in, you and Severus heal Harry until Christmas dawn. Heal his body and his liver and his bones and as much of his mind as you can. You're tired when you get to Severus' cottage. And you still hear Harry's mending screams. But it's your most magical Christmas ever. Having Harry – recovering, too – is better than listening to carols.

You anticipate the various battles ahead of you both because there are battles to be anticipated, and your head hangs limply, connecting to your chest, as you smile and moisture drops into your cupped hands. You might swear that it's melting snow, but you don't.

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_A/N: Zenith is an American electronics company. Yes, it's sappy. I'm aware._


End file.
